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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630887">Don’t Stop Believing: Brian</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36'>oiuytrewq36</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soundtrack Trilogy, combined and expanded [31]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queer as Folk (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:22:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,219</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I don’t want you to get the impression that Justin and I have some kind of torrid operatic marriage where we’re either fucking ourselves into a coma or screaming at each other across the kitchen at all times, no in-between. It’s calm, being with him, never boring, obviously, but with a steady, comforting togetherness that I used to believe only existed in the most frilly of hetero fairytales.</p><p>That being said, we’re a pair of strong personalities, to put it lightly, so it’s not like the magical ceremony of marital union could actually save us from the occasional drag-out fight and subsequent bone-crunching makeup sex.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soundtrack Trilogy, combined and expanded [31]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077905</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don’t Stop Believing: Brian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I don’t want you to get the impression that Justin and I have some kind of torrid operatic marriage where we’re either fucking ourselves into a coma or screaming at each other across the kitchen at all times, no in-between. It’s calm, being with him, never boring, obviously, but with a steady, comforting togetherness that I used to believe only existed in the most frilly of hetero fairytales.</p><p>That being said, we’re a pair of strong personalities, to put it lightly, so it’s not like the magical ceremony of marital union could actually save us from the occasional drag-out fight and subsequent bone-crunching makeup sex. </p><p>“<em>Another</em> few days?” Justin says. I think he’s trying not to be disappointed. Right now, in an ugly chair in my cushy Chicago hotel room, I loathe myself.</p><p>“Not that long, in the grand scheme of things, Sunshine, right?” Self-hatred not going away, in case you couldn’t tell.</p><p>“Brian,” he says, and I want to cause myself unbearable hurt for the way his voice has flattened in the last few minutes. “You said five days, max. It’s been fourteen.”</p><p>“So you get the whole condo to yourself for a couple more days,” I say. “What’s the big deal?” A mistake, and I know it the moment the words reach the phone.</p><p>Justin’s silent for a few moments. Fuck. </p><p>“I just-” he says, and stops. Double fuck. I walk to the minibar, extract a few tiny bottles of no-doubt-criminally-expensive vodka. When he still hasn’t spoken, I down the first one and line up the rest for easy access.</p><p>“We moved into this place to be <em>together</em>,” he says. “We got <em>married</em> to be together, and you’re still traveling and pitching and selling like you’re running the office out of our kitchen instead of from the biggest financial neighborhood on the East Coast.”</p><p>I laugh, a little, before I can stop myself. “You think we could live like we do if I was just a normal working Joe?”</p><p>“I didn’t say that,” Justin says, voice getting tighter. Shit shit shit. “I’d just like for you to not <em>disappear</em> on me for two weeks after saying you’d be home in less than one.”</p><p>“Well,” I say, fully in Camp Asshole now, “I’m <em>sorry</em> for doing what’s needed to keep my goddamn business going so that you can do your goddamn art the way you want to in our big ol’ bourgeois homestead, Sunshine.”</p><p>Justin’s angry for real, now, even in the way he’s breathing, and I want to take everything back but instead I just reach for another shot.</p><p>“Don’t you <em>dare</em> blame this on me,” he snaps. “You’re only doing this trip because you don’t know how to let go of even a tiny bit of control, anyway.”</p><p>That stings, and I want to shout something back that’ll make him really furious, but I’ll also be totally unable to live with myself if I don’t at least try to fix this shitstorm right now.</p><p>“Listen,” I say. He snorts. “I can try to talk to the company, reschedule meetings. I can be back in one or two days instead of three or four, or whatever.”</p><p>“Don’t bother,” Justin says, and hangs up.</p><p>I stare at my miserable little line of bottles for a long few minutes, and at my phone for a few more. Then I get to work.</p><p>I call the company leadership and make excuses, apologize profusely through gritted teeth and assure them that they’ll be getting the best Kinnetik has to offer, then inform the most competent of the execs drooling to be partner that she’s running the meeting tomorrow in my place. I book tickets, last-minute, fucking coach class, and pack while I field angry calls from Cynthia and Ted. I’m checked out of the hotel and in a cab on my way to their airport in two hours flat.</p><p>I’ve lost him here before, and I’m fucked if I’m going to do it again.</p><p>***</p><p>I open the door and see Justin in the middle of the living room, flat on his back next to a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey. He sits up, takes me in, and slides to his feet, lip curled in something that’s not a smile.</p><p>He starts to walk over to me, and I say, “I’m sorry for-” and that’s as far as I get before he pushes me back against the entranceway wall and shoves his tongue down my throat. </p><p>“Fuck now, talk later,” he says, low, very nearly a threat. His breath smells like smoke and liquor, and I wonder, briefly, when we switched up the roles in this little drama. “If you’re sorry, you can fuck me hard enough to make up for the last two weeks.”</p><p>He kisses me, then, rough with his hands iron-firm on my jaw. He grabs my belt and drags me over to the plush Italian carpet, leaving a trail of shirts and socks behind us.</p><p>I move to kiss him, but he shoves my head down and presses the lube into my chest, and then he laughs, darkly, when I don’t hesitate to swallow his cock whole while I’m working him open. His hand comes to the back of my head and pushes, and no matter who’s on top I think it’s pretty fucking clear who’s in charge tonight.</p><p>“Get <em>in</em> me already,” Justin says, orders, really, but I can’t pull away, the feeling of him clasping at my fingers is just too much, and he snarls <em>fuck you</em> and then I’m on my back and he’s over me, spearing himself open and choking on desperate pained noises.</p><p>Justin fucks himself on me with no restraint, and no regard for my comfort or pleasure. It probably doesn’t say anything good that being his sex toy feels like the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done, but holy motherfucking Christ, he’s splitting himself open over and over again and growling down at me, goading me, bending forward to purr sharp little barbs in my ear.</p><p>“You’re really just gonna lay here and let me use you?” Justin’s saying now, voice thrumming with danger. He bites my ear, hard. “Everyone thinks I’m your bitch, but they have no idea that it’s the other way around, do they?”</p><p>I have to make him pay for that one, the way he strokes one possessive hand down my chest as he says it, but then he grabs my face and kisses me with enough force that my head knocks back against the hardwood floor under the carpet. </p><p>“The legendary Brian Kinney,” Justin breathes, right on my mouth, trailing his fingers over the base of my neck. He’s still ramming himself back on me, groaning between words as he does. I think that if I come out of this with even a fragment of my sanity intact, it’ll be a miracle. “Brought to your knees by some sheltered, naïve kid you once fucked. Fucking club royalty, the best anyone’ll ever have, and all it took to take you down was falling. In. Love.”</p><p>I see red, or very nearly, and this time I do flip us over, hiking his legs up to fuck him hard enough to hurt, and he throws his head back and laughs, digging his fingernails into my back. “Took you long enough,” Justin says, grinning, feral, even as I’m pounding him so hard he’ll have rug burn tomorrow. I should have a comeback to snarl now, put him in his place, but- fuck it, what’s the use? It’s not like I want to be anything other than his.</p><p>Justin doesn’t miss a beat, the little fucker. “I guess you really are my bitch,” he says, looking right at me.</p><p>And this is the moment, the place in the script where I turn him over and tie him up and ride him until he begs for mercy. It’s time for me to reclaim dominance, and I can’t do it, I have to break eye contact and shove my face into his neck. There’s a beat of nothing, because he knows what it means, and then he <em>whimpers</em>, oh, shit, and weaves a hand into my hair, gentler now, soothing me, kissing me.</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he’s whispering, nonsensical warm air against my ear. “I love you. I love you. Oh, fuck, <em>Brian</em>-”</p><p>The noises he’s making are sweeter now, out of control, big gulping gasps and thin moans that vibrate his arched throat, his hands still on my back but not possessive now, desperate, scrabbling for a better hold. I gather his shoulders up off the ground to pull him in closer, to fuck him the way I need to, and on the first thrust at the new angle he fucking shrieks.</p><p>“Oh, God,” he gasps, eyes squeezed shut, “ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod-”</p><p>“Look at me,” I tell him, but he’s in his own world. I stop moving.</p><p>Justin opens tear-glassy eyes and makes a helpless  sobbing noise, batting at my shoulders. I can’t do anything but look at him, so beautiful, my one real stroke of good fortune in life, and I’ll take him and submit to him because I <em>am</em> his, and what’s the use of hiding it?</p><p>“Please,” Justin whispers, then, and I’m never going to be able to deny him anything again if he keeps looking at me with the wide defenseless eyes that seem to be taking up half his face right now. I steady my grip on him and start to move again. He chokes on my name, a plea, I think, again, his skin slick and burning hot against mine.</p><p>I need to kiss him, just one more before we fall, and when I cup his jaw in my hands he strains up to meet my mouth, lapping hungry and hot over my cheek when our faces slip against each other. Justin comes with my tongue in his mouth and his hands bruising my back, shuddering and cursing and clinging on to me. I’m there, so close to being there, but I need something more and I don’t know what.</p><p>Justin’s looking beatifically up at me now, mouth in a slack open smile. He rubs at my tensed shoulders with fingers that were just scratching ribbons down my back. “Come on,” he murmurs, “for me,” and something inside of me breaks open in a way I’ve never felt.</p><p>My thoughts feel slushy, too slow to keep up with my body. I’m going to come, terrifyingly hard, I know, and all I can do is hold on and sink my teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming. Dimly, under the roaring furious pleasure setting me on fire, I hear Justin yelp, feel him come again under me with painful high-pitched whimpers, his legs tightening around my waist.</p><p>I taste blood as I come to. Justin’s petting my hair, his lips pursed against my temple. When I raise my head, there’s a fresh angry bitemark on his shoulder, sticky vermilion smeared on top. </p><p>He’s watching me, I can feel it. I don’t know if I can look at him. I close my eyes, say, “I’m-” and for the second time today he cuts off my apology. </p><p>“Don’t be,” he says, gently turning my head until I’m facing him. He’s staring hungrily at me with his teeth sunk in his bottom lip. “Jesus. That was-”</p><p>I have to nod, because it’s not like I can disagree. He kisses me, firmly, both hands in my hair, nothing like how he’d done earlier. When he lets go, his eyes are a little less dilated, more focused, mouth set with a hint of concern.</p><p>“You came home,” he says, softly.</p><p>“Yeah,” I say.</p><p>“What about the meeting?”</p><p>I lower my head back to his chest. “There are other people who can handle it.”</p><p>He nuzzles my forehead. “You’re sure?”</p><p>I push myself up to look at him. “I’m sure.”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have said- what I did,” he says, and now he’s the one who’s not making eye contact. </p><p>I stroke his cheek with my thumb, tracing through the sweat that’s still on his face. “Neither should I,” I say. “And you’re not wrong to be angry at me for making a promise I didn’t keep.”</p><p>He closes his eyes. “Still,” he says. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Me too,” I say, and kiss him.</p><p>***</p><p>We eventually manage to stand up and stagger to the shower, and I clean and bandage the broken skin on his shoulder after we dry off, as he rests his forehead against my cheek.</p><p>The bed is made up with the really obscenely expensive grey silk sheets that feel like cool water on flushed after-sex skin, and I know that Justin must have put them on for me, for the trip home that I’d told him earlier today I wasn’t going to make. His body is warm, so warm and smooth and soft. I can’t stop holding him, kissing and stroking and caressing all over him.</p><p>“God, I’ve fucking missed you,” I say. He nestles closer.</p><p>“I missed you too,” he says. “So can we talk about it for real, this time?”</p><p>“Yeah,” I say, because - well, what else is there that I can do?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he says back, soft silky hair brushing my chin, my sternum, my collarbones. “Good.”</p>
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